Balsa wood boat

My mind is a balsa wood boat, pulled by the current, tossed on the waves, sleepless with sorrow and worry. It’s stupid to be awake all night with nothing to celebrate, and nothing to drink. My heart is a sponge that sucks up misery like vinegar. I have brothers, but they’re useless. When I complained to them, they gave me no comfort. I was embarrassed by my weakness, and they were angry with me. My heart is not a rolling stone; it’s stuck. It’s not a straw mat that others can step on. It’s delicate, dignified, and elegant. It hurts me when others take advantage, when they lie and cheat to make themselves look good. I can’t help but feel hurt when I’ve been wronged, when petty people, full of hate, don’t mind insulting and humiliating me. In my quiet moments, I know it’s not me that’s at fault. Moonlight is the same to me as daylight. I watch out the night, sunset and sunrise. My sorrow is like the clothes I can’t take off. They haven’t been washed; they’re weighted down with sorrow.